Rainy Days
by MajesticMoments
Summary: Some days, its difficult to get through the day. Some days are bearable. And some days, everything might just seem okay. John's Perspective, Pre-Sherlolly. [Post TFP. This is was written prior to TFP airing before I watched. So its based off of people's impressions who had seen the pre-screening.]


Written prior to TFP based on random remarks made by people who had seen the preview screening of TFP.

 _Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. They belong to ACD & BBC Sherlock. The story is my own._

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It was difficult being away from Rosie for more than a few hours.

After Mary, it was easier to just _not_ see her. She reminded him of her mother and it was too much to cope with. Wanting things to be better but not wanting to think about anything was an odd balance to strike. Rosie hadn't made it any easier.

But now, Rosie was with him as often as he could be with her. She was growing so quickly. Inquisitive hands reaching for everything in sight, now with crawling in her repertoire of skills. He tried not to think too often of these triumphant milestones, only enjoying them in the moment, but if he thought too long he'd only realize all the things Mary was missing. And how Rosie didn't have her mother to applaud her, encouraging her on.

But sitting here, rain pouring outside, a fire crackling in the fireplace, it was calm and, here, he could be a bit at peace. It was familiar. There are more happy memories here than in any other place in all of London.

Truth be told, "home" didn't feel like home anymore. His home with Mary, he and Rosie didn't spend much time there, but for the life of him, he couldn't part with the space. More often than not, they found themselves at Baker Street, either with Mrs. Hudson or upstairs, here, in 221b.

And though the smell of burnt chemicals, a swirling mixture of ammonia, formaldehyde, and nicotine still pervaded the air, there wasn't an experiment in sight and the floors were oddly clean. A silent argument that Molly & Mrs. Hudson ultimately won as Rosie's godmothers.

Despite the solace of this place, it still wasn't the same. It wouldn't be the same.

But he had Rosie, Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson here. And more often than not, Sherlock _was_ here, fiddling away with smaller, non-chemical experiments or tapping away at his phone, or just sitting and thinking through a case.

Its rare. But it does happen, ever since… when he'd find Sherlock sitting in his chair. Eyes glassed over. _Not_ in his mind palace. Looking at nothing in space, just lost in his thoughts. But ever since that case, that day. He'd find Sherlock looking just a bit lost. He wouldn't put it on Sherlock as one who fidgets, but in these moments, his hands would tighten into a fist, unconsciously. Tightening, then relaxing. Over and over.

John didn't know what brought on those moments. But whenever he and Rosie arrived, Sherlock would break out of his stupor and excuse himself. Locking himself away in his room for hours. Only re-emerging if a case came up. And sometimes not at all.

Today was one of those days.

The years he'd known Sherlock, he'd been privy to many of Sherlock's vulnerabilities. So many he locked away so well. And for all that Sherlock said, there was so much more that John realized he couldn't say. His mind too quick, his mouth pattering along as rapidly as it could muster.

He always figured that's why Sherlock played music. Despite Sherlock's protest to the contrary, he was quite an emotional being. All those thoughts, emotions, that could only be manifested in the drawing of a bow, in the minute sounds of reverberating strings, waves of notes lost into the air around him.

But Sherlock hadn't played in a while. Ignoring his violin which sat in a case in the corner.

Something was wrong with his friend, and John Watson didn't know how to fix it.

The door to Sherlock's bedroom opened, bringing John out of his thoughts. And out walked Sherlock.

"Got a new case?" John asked as he turned back to look at him.

" _No_." His tone not of disappointment or regret.

Rosie crawled along the floor to reach Sherlock.

It was always a funny sight to see, Sherlock, with Rosie. But Sherlock never denied her. Reaching down to her, pulling her up. A soft smile on his face. John was certain Sherlock still didn't know what to do with children, but he tried nonetheless. Holding her up on his hip with one arm and patting the top of her head with his other hand.

It seemed like Rosie never sensed his apprehension. Always eager to be as close to Sherlock's head. Perhaps trying to mimic Sherlock's actions as she tried to pat his head of curls as well.

" _Just heading out for a bit. Mrs. Hudson said she'd bring up some food. No need for take-out tonight._ "

John considered asking him where he was going, if not for a case. This was the first he'd left his room on his own accord, when he was in one of those _moments_. But perhaps this was for the best, so John didn't question it.

"Alright. See you later.. then?"

Sherlock only hummed in response, setting Rosie back down atop her blanket that was spread across the floor where her many toys laid about.

Without another word, Sherlock walked to the door, stepping over Rosie's guard rail perched in between the door frame of the open door. Sherlock's footsteps receding as he made his way downstairs.

Still curious, John walked to the window. Waiting for Sherlock to emerge outside. The rain pattered against the window, streams of water beading down. But he could see Sherlock stepping out, adjusting his scarf around his neck, running across the street to someone beneath the streetlamp.

And though the rain obstructed his view a little, he could see that someone holding an umbrella. He could see a woman with long brown hair half pinned up, wearing a dark floral dress. It was the scarf that peaked out beneath her jacket that gave her away. It didn't match. But the undeniabley long, striped pink and black scarf could only belong to Molly Hooper.

To be honest, John wasn't sure about anything when it concerned those two. John hadn't realized they were on speaking terms. As of late, each time he spoke to Molly, their conversations only concerned Rosie. Each time Molly came up in conversation with Sherlock, he'd ignore the conversation and return to his phone. And he hadn't been in the company of either one of them at the same time since before.

But obviously something had changed.

Sherlock had taken the umbrella from Molly, holding it up for the two of them, as they walked along, away from Baker Street.


End file.
